
COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY HAROLD ROORBACH 



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i. ALL THAT GLITTERS IS NOT GOLD. A comic drama in two acts. Six 
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2. A SCRAF OF PAPER. A comic drama in three acts. Six male, six female 

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3. MY LORD IN LIVERY. A farce in one act. Five male, three female charac- 

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Time, iorty minutes. 

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14. MARRIED LIFE. A comedy in three acts. Five male, five female characters. 
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15. A PRETTY PIECE OF BUSINESS. A comedietta in one act. Two male, 
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16. LEND ME FIVE SHILLINGS. A farce in one act. Five male, two female 
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17. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN.— Original Version. A drama in six acts. Fifteen 
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HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St., New York. 



CUT OFF 

WITH A SHILLING 

A COMEDIETTA IN ONE ACT 

BY / 
S. THEYRE 'SMITH 



New American Edition, Correctly Reprinted from the 
Original Authorized Acting Edition, with the Original 
Cast of the Characters, Argument of the Play, 
Time of Representation, Description of the 
Costumes, Scene and Property Plots, Dia- 
gram of the Stage Setting, Sides of 
Entrance and Exit, Relative Posi- 
tions of the Performers, Expla- 
nation of the Stage Direc- 
tions, ETC., AND ALL OF 
the Stage Business. 



Copyright, 1890, by Harold Roorbach. 




NEW YORK 

HAROLD ROORBACH 
PUBLISHER 







CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 



Prince of Wales' Theatre, 

London, 

April 10, 1871. 

Sam Gaythorne Mr. H. W. Montgomery. 

Colonel Berners Mr. Charles Collette. 

Kitty Gaythorne Miss Carlotta Addison. 

Time of Representation — Forty-five Minutes. 

THE ARGUMENT. 

Mr. and Mrs. Gaythorne have been married one week and are 
spending their honey-moon at the sea-side in a devotedly happy manner ; 
but the young wife is wholly unconscious of her husband's anxiety in 
awaiting a letter from his uncle. Colonel Berners, in reply to his own 
letter announcing their clandestine marriage. Colonel Berners had 
made other matrimonial plans for his nephew whose future fortune depended 
upon his compliance. The eagerly expected letter comes and confirms the 
young man's fears, as in a few forcible words it reminds him that if he 
married without his uncle's consent he should receive the sum of one shill- 
ing sterling and no more, which intelligence throws the young couple into 
painful perplexity, and the wife reproaches her husband for deceiving her 
about his possessions, which he resents by reminding her that it is his mar- 
riage with her that has ruined his prospects ; and seizing his hat he goes 
out without his breakfast, leaving his wife in a state of great uneasiness. 
Colonel Berners, ignorant of his nephew's present abode, has been 
attracted to this watering-place by a review of volunteers that occasions an 
unusual crowd which is suddenly dispersed by the appearance, in the 
street, of an infuriated bull. The Colonel makes a rapid retreat to the 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 3 

first place of safety which happens to be his nephew's apartments ; and 
Mrs. Gaythorne, thinking at first that it is her husband, shows her agita- 
tion, and the old gentleman is attracted to her and expresses his solicitude 
and admiration. They become strangely confidential, by which means the 
Colonel discloses his identity, and the young wife — concealing hers for 
a time — dexterously wins him back to his nephew and leaves him with no 
recourse but unconditional surrender. 

COSTUMES. 

Sam Gaythorne. — Tweed morning suit, derby hat. 
Col. Berners. — Dark blue military frock coat, white waistcoat and 
trousers, military cap, grey curly wig and side whiskers. 
Kitty. — Bright morning dress, hat. 

PROPERTIES. 

Furniture and appointments as per scene plot. Breakfast and service on 
table, R. Writing materials on table, l. Letter, containing a coin, to be 
handed on off c. entrance. Newspaper, umbrella and field-glass for Col. 
Berners. 

STAGE SETTING AND SCENE PLOT. 



Marine Backing 
— ' Window 



Table £ Chairs 

4 

Arm- Chair 



♦ 



'Fire-Place 




Scene. — Sitting-room boxed in 3c, backed with marine drop in 4c 
Practicable window c. in flat. Door, with curtains or hangings, L. 3 E. 
Fire place, with mantel and mirror, R. I E. Table and two chairs up R. 
Writing table and chair down L. Arm chair R. C. Sofa L. c. Ornaments 
on mantel. Pictures on walls. Carpet down. 

N. B. Set scenery is not essential to the action, and may be dispensed 
with if preferred. 



4 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

In observing, the player is supposed to face the audience, r. means 
right; L., left; C, centre; R. c, right of centre; l. c, left of centre; d. 
f., door in the flat or back scene ; r. F., right side of the flat ; l. F., left side 
of the flat; R. D., right door; L. D., left door; I E., first entrance; 2 E., 
second entrance; U. e., upper entrance; I, 2, or 3 c, first, second or third 
grooves ; up stage, towards the back ; down stage, towards the footlights. 

R. R. C. C. L. C. L. 

Note. — The text of this play is correctly reprinted from the original 
authorized acting edition. The introductory matter has been carefully 
prepared by an expert, and is the only part of this book protected by copy- 
right. 





CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 



Scene. — A breakfast-room in a sea-side lodging house. Large win- 
dow, C, opening upon a sea-side view ; a door on one' side ; table 
with breakfast laid. 

Enter, Sam and Kitty arm-in-arm through window. 

Kitty. But is my hair dry, Sam, darling ? 

Sam. {touching it) Dry as a bone, Kitty ; dry as a mummy, 
my love, or as Miss Packerton's new novel. 

Kitty. Don't compare my hair to that wretched book, sir. 

Sam. Hard lines on you certainly, for your hair is all from your 
own head, and her book, is the greater part of it, from other peo- 
ple's. Your hair is perfectly original, whereas her novel is a kind 
of literary chignon, stolen from the dead, worked up into an 
unnatural shape, and supported by puffs. But still they're alike 
in both being perfectly dry ; so off with your hat, and, Venus having 
risen from the sea, let's have some breakfast. 

Kitty, [taking off her hat before glass) I've had the grandest 
bathe. Did you see me swim, Sam ? 

Sam. [opening newspaper) Not to my knowledge, Kitty. 

Kitty. You didn't ! Why, I thought you were watching me. 

Sam. So I was. 

Kitty. And you didn't see me swim ! Why, I swam ten 
strokes. 

Sam. With how many feet on the ground ? Come, honor 
bright, now. 

Kitty, [defiantly) Why not — not — [coaxingly] — not more than 
one, Sam. 

Sam. Ah ! I thought so. Women were " deceivers ever, one 

foot in sea, and one on shore, to one thing " Well, I never ! 

{starting, and staring at newspaper) 

Kitty. What, Sam ? What is it ? 



6 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Sam. Ha, ha, ha ! This is capital ! Ha, ha ! 

Kitty. What is? Tell me, please, {pettishly) Now, Sam, tell 
me. 

Sam. Tell you! I can't for laughing. Read that, [holding out 
newspaper) 

Kitty. Read what? [taking paper) 

Sam. Why, that marriage. 

Kitty. Which ? The top one ? 

Sam. Yes, the top one : the tip-top one. 

Kitty, [reads) " On the 15th instant, at St. George's, Hanover 
Square, by the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop of Bullock- 
Smithy, assisted by the Reverend O. Fyddel, D. D., cousin of 
the bride, Alexander George Pursechoyle, late Captain, Royal 
Marine Mounted Rifles, to Clementina Belinda Letitia, eldest 
daughter of Ambrose Cronyon, of Blarney-le-Towers, Esquire, 
and niece of the Right Honorable the Earl of Chateau-Gam- 
mon." 

Sam. *• Deeply regretted," eh ? Do they add that ? 

Kitty. Of course not. " No cards." But, Sam 

Sam. Ah! " Friends will kindly take this intimation." Ha, 
ha ! I know one friend who won't take it kindly at all ; and 
that's my uncle Joe. 

Kitty. What, your uncle, the colonel of volunteers? 

Sam. Yes, Colonel Berners, First Diddlesex. Ha, ha ! If his 
conversation is ordinarily all guns and swords, what on earth will 
it be now ? I wonder whether this business has had anything to 
do with his not answering my letter announcing our marriage. 
[aside) She doesn't know yet how much depends on it. 

Kitty. Perhaps your uncle is out of town at present, Sam : gone 
on some volunteering expedition, very likely. 

Sam. Possibly. He's mad about volunteers, and seldom misses 
a review. 

Kitty. Or he may be ill, you know, darling ; seriously. 

Sam. Perhaps, [aside) She always looks on the bright side of 
things, bless her ! 

Kitty. But, Sam, dear, I hope there was nothing in the tone of 
your letter to offend him. What did you say to him? 

Sam. Everything that was kind and affectionate, my love ; 
addressed him as my very dear uncle ; hoped he was quite well ; 
referred to the exceeding kindness which I had always had from 
him ; mentioned that my happiness for life depended on my marry- 
ing Miss Kitty Frampton ; [she makes an affectionate demonstration 
with her hands, and kisses him) stated that I had the best reasons 
for supposing that my feelings were reciprocated by the lady in 
question ; [she kisses him) as we were to be married two hours 
after the time of writing, assured him that I could not take such a 
step without first informing him of it ; begged him to direct his 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 7 

reply to my chambers in town, and it would be forwarded to any 
place where we might decide to stop ; and concluded by signing 
myself his most affectionate nephew, Sam — most affectionate, you'll 
observe. Now, after such a letter, could his displeasure con- 
tinue ? 

Kitty. But is he displeased, Sam ? 

Sam. Well, you see he was always impressing upon me that I 
had a right to look high ; and in fact he — he wanted me to marry 
this very Miss Cronyon, who being over six feet in her stockings, 
would have necessitated my looking high indeed. 

Kitty. Wanted you to marry — oh ! {bashfully playing with the 
button of his coat) Was she nice looking, Sam, this tall Miss 
Cronyon ? 

Sam. Well, Kitty, as well as I could make out at that distance, 
she rather ran to color. It was rather the "Gules, two cheek 
bones rampant " order of countenance to say the truth, and I hate 
your over-colored women. 

Kitty. Then I suppose she was rich, Sam? 

Sam. Yes, she'd any quantity of money. 

Kitty. And of course the color of that was quite unexceptionable, 
eh ? {slyly) 

Sam. Faith, yes ! though I am told very few people ever saw 
the color of it. 

Kitty. And she was highly born, too, Sam ? 

Sam. Yes, there was nothing to object to in her birth except 
that, as regards her own particular case, it might have been more 
recent by ten years or so with advantage. 

Kitty, (clapping her hands) Sam ! 

Sam. Well? 

Kitty. Sam ! [whispering in his ear) 

Sam. Eh ! you conceited little witch, you. Fancy your cutting 
out the niece of an Earl, do you say? Pooh ! she didn't care a 
straw for me, and I — I had other views, which I am sorry to say, 
my uncle 

Kitty. Never mind, you darling. As long as we love each other 
like this, what does it matter what your uncle or any one else 
thinks ? We shall still have something to live for. 

Sam. Perhaps, but we shall have absolutely nothing to live on. 

Kitty. Nothing to live on! [very seriously) You're only joking, 
Sam? 

Sam. Of course, my love, (aside) No, I daren't tell her yet. 
(aloud) Joking, of course. We can live upon love, can't we? 
We'll kill Cupid and cook him, and you shall have the liver-wing. 
(jumping up) But, pooh! all this because the postman is late. 
We shall have the letter directly. My uncle's a brick, and no 
mistake ! The post at Westerton-super-Mare varies with the tides 
— now forward with the spring, now backward with the neap. All 



8 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

owing to the postman's being more than half an idiot and of course, 
liable like the ocean, to lunar influences. Stay ! by Jove, there 
he is now ! [going to window') Hi ! 

Kitty. Who, Sam? 

Sam. The wandering lunatic attached to the Westerton Post 
Office, {calling) Here, I say ! {standing at window, and calling 
off) Postman! [to her) Deaf too, this functionary. I said he was 
short of senses, [calling) Here! anything for me? Mr. Gay- 
thorne — [louder) Mr. Gaythorne. Is there — ? Ah, thanks! You're 
late this morning, ain't you ? A review, eh ? What ? Oh ! volunteers, 
is it? What time? Twelve o'clock, eh! Thanks! Good morning! 
[coming forward) Twelve ! It's not ten yet. Heaps of time. We'll 
go and have a look at it, eh, Kitty ? Ah ! [tearing open cover) The 
avuncular fist, by Jove ! Here we are, my pet. Why — by George ! 
— why [feeling letter) there's money in it. Feel. Don't you feel 
it ? What on earth 

Kitty. But open it, darling ; open it. 

Sam. Here goes then, [opening letter — a shilling falls o?i the floor) 
What's that? 

Kitty, [picking it up) A shilling, Sam. What a funny old gen- 
tleman your uncle must be. 

Sam. [uneasily) So he is — so he is. The playfullest old — old 
demon. Though why the dickens he's playing tricks with the 
currency in this fashion, I cannot say. 

Kitty. Then why don't you look, Sam ? [jokingly) Do you think 
it's right to keep your wife on thorns in this way, sir? 

Sam. [laughing uneasily) Why, considering we married under 
the rose, Kitty, it's not so inappropriate, [glancing at letter) Gad ! 
I thought as much, [letting letter fall and throwing himself into 
chair) 

Kitty. What? [taking up letter) May I look, Sam? 

Sam. Oh ! by all means, though you've [looking at shilling) 
picked up the drift of it already. 

Kitty, (reads) " Dear Sam, I am a man of my word. I told you 
that if you married without my consent, you would receive from 
me the sum of one shilling sterling, and no more." 

Sam. Mark the satire in the " sterling " ! 

Kitty, (reads) "Your letter informs me that you have done so. 
I enclose the shilling, and am, yours truly — Joseph Berners. P. S. 
The weather is fine but cool." 

Sam. Ha, ha! That's his satire again. Didn't I say he was 
the playfullest old fiend 

Kitty. But what does he mean — if there's any meaning in it? 

Sam. Oh, there's meaning enough in it. Never knew three 
lines and a shilling mean so much in all my life before. 

Kitty, (rather coldly) Then please explain, Sam. 

Sam. (in an embarrassed way) Explain ! What could be clearer? 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. g 

He tells me distinctly that he cuts me off with a shilling : disin- 
herits me. There you have it in black and white, and here, that 
there may be no mistake {tossing shitting on table) in white 
alone. 

Kitty. Well, it's very cruel of him ; but, if he chooses to be 
offended with you, why .should you wish for any more of his 
money ? 

Sam. Why ! — why because, though no doubt this is a very good 
shilling as shillings go, yet as they go so fast, it might perhaps be 
convenient to have a few more of them. Twenty of them go to a 
pound, you know, and where all the pounds go to I've never for 
the life of me been able to discover yet. 

Kitty. But your own fortune which you told me about, and your 
town house, and your country house which you described to 
me ? 

Sam. Faith, yes. [shrugging his shoutders) I'd a very fine 
property in the air in those days certainly, and as I was making 
love to a girl next door to an angel, it was scarcely inappropriate 
to boast of my possessions in that element, [impatiently) Hang it, 
Kitty ! Can't you see that all this depended on my uncle's good 
pleasure ? 

Kitty. And *so, Sam — Mr. Gaythorne — did you not represent 
yourself to me as a man of fortune ? 

Sam. I told you that I had expectations ; I've been deceived, 
that's all. 

Kitty. No. that is not all, for I have been deceived as well. 

Sam. How was I to know that my uncle was such a brute? 

Kitty. You ought to have known that he was a brute. Isn't he 
your own relation ? You have deceived me, sir, deceived me from 
the first. Everything you represented to me, everything you 
promised me, has turned out false. You promised me that 
I should have ten bridesmaids when I was married, and I had 
to put up with an old pew-opener woman of eighty. You prom- 
ised me that we should run away in a carriage of four with posti- 
lions, and after all we went in a hansom to a railway station. You 
told me that it was your uncle's gout which prevented his 
seeing me before our marriage ; I don't believe that he ever had 
gout in his life. 

Sam. You don't ! Why, it's in the family. He inherited it from 
his father. I shall have it some day, I suppose. Ha, ha ! A 
shilling and the family gout my sole inheritance ! Ha, ha ! 

Kitty. You're a false, heartless, cruel 

Sam. Bless my soul, Mrs. Gaythorne, this is rather too much ! 
You seem to forget that if my prospects have been ruined, it is 
you that have mined them. Before I married you I was a rich 
man, my uncle's acknowledged heir. I marry you, and, gad! he 



IO CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

turns away and hands me a shilling, as if — confound his insolence ! 
— as if I were a beggar ! 

Kitty. Well, and aren't you? 

Sam. Thank you, Mrs. Gaythorne. 

Kitty. Not at all. You've only yourself to thank for it. It's 
shameful ! {as he takes his hat and goe» towards door) Where are 
you going, Mr. Gaythorne ? 

Sam. Going to — see the tide come in. 

Kitty. The tide come in ! Why, it was high tide an hour ago. 
Where are you going ? Won't you have any breakfast ? 

Sam. No, thanks. This morning's experiences have rather put 
me off my feed. 

Kitty. But — but you'll make yourself ill if you don't mind. 

Sam. Well, but so long as you don't mind, what does that 
matter. 

Kitty, [in a vexed tone) What do you mean ? To go out in that 
way without eating anything, is the way to kill yourself, you 

Sam. Kill myself, ha, ha ! Might do worse than that, perhaps. 
Happy thought, — ha, ha ! Kill myself, eh ? By gad, ah ! 

Exit, by door. 

Kitty, {uneasily) No, but — Mr. Gaythorne ! {anxiously) Sam ! 
(desperately) Sam, darling, forgive me! I'm very sorry — I didn't 
mean — {with a scream) Sam ! {as if to follow him, then stopping) 
No, it is not I that am wrong — it is I that have been wronged. 
Let him come to me, I know he can't keep away long. If I was a 
little put out at learning so suddenly that he was worth nothing at 
all, instead of having two houses and ever so much a year, wasn't 
it quite natural ? I married him for love, of course ; but he might 
have excused a little impatience when love had the bandage torn 
so very abruptly from its eyes. But, men are so vain, so selfish. 
They think that as long as we have them, rich or poor, it's all the 
same to us ; that while they do us the honor of loving us, we don't 
care for anything else. How absurd ! how conceited ! how — how 
true ! My darling ! I don't care what he's cut off with. I have 
given him all my heart ; but, if ever I meet that dreadful uncle of 
his, I'll give him — some of my mind. 

Enter, Colonel Berners, hurriedly, through open window, which 
he closes hastily, and looks through. 

Ah! {listening without turning round) I said he'd come back, {a 
pause) Why doesn't he say something? {turning quickly) My 

dar {starting) Oh ! it isn't he. 

Bern, {perceiving her) I beg ten thousand pardons, ma'am, ten 
thousand pardons, {glancing out of window) for trespassing on 
your privacy in this way, but — {looking out) if strangers are to be 
hunted through the streets of this town by wild bulls — {looking out) 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. \ I 

Ah! up goes another old woman : that's three — the inhabitants 
must not be surprised if — [looking out and then turning) It's gone to 
the chemist's — not be surprised if strangers do behave in rather an 
unceremonious fashion occasionally, [looking out) Ha, ha ! I knew 
it would call at the china shop. 

Kitty, [anxiously) Is there anything the matter ? What — what 
is it? 

Bern. A mad bull, ma'am: a prize mad bull I should say, by 
the size of it. 

Kitty. A bull ! Where ? 

Bern. In the china shop at present, ma'am, [looking out) Stay ! 
no, it's come out. There! it's gone to the dentist's. I knew it 
was mad ! 

Kitty. I really scarcely understand this 

Bern. This intrusion ! Surely I've made it clear. I was pur- 
sued by an infuriated bull, ma'am. The horns of the enraged 
beast were on the point of operating on my coat tails — that is, were 
threatening my rear guard, when I fortunately spied this open 
window. I made an echelon movement, swung round my right 
flank, pivoting on my left, and effected a lodgement in your apart- 
ment. Regarding it in the light of neutral territory, ma'am, with 
your permission I will lay down my arms for a moment, [deposit- 
ing his umbrella and field glasses on table, and wiping his brow) 

Kitty. Pray rest yourself. Be seated, please ; as your flight 
seems to have 

Bern. Call it a retreat, ma'am — a retreat for strategical reasons. 
It was merely a retreat, though necessarily a rapid one, as the 
enemy debouched from a slaughter-house with alarming sud- 
denness. 

Kitty. Did everyone else run away — that is, retreat, sir ? 

Bern. Yes, ma'am ; the movement was effected with equal 
promptness and unanimity. 

Kitty. You didn't — you didn't meet a gentleman as you came 
here, did you ? [anxiously) 

Bern. I met no one, madam, gentle or simple. The entire popu- 
lation was going my way. 

Kitty. Then did you see a gentleman just before you took refuge 
in this house ? 

Bern. You couldn't describe his back, could you, ma'am? 

Kitty. He's tall and very graceful ; and his back is a model for 
a sculptor. 

Bern. Ah! Could you be a little more definite? Not being a 
sculptor, you see, I 

Kitty. Well, he's very graceful, sir 

Bern, [thoughtfully) Ah, then I don't think I 

Kitty. And 'there's a look of coolness and courage about him, 
that 



12 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Bern. Then I'm certain I didn't see him. If he couldn't adapt 
himself to circumstances like the rest of us, he certainly was not 
present. 

Kitty. Do you mean by adapting himself to circumstances run- 
ning away, may I ask ? 

Bern. I mean — a — retreating, ma'am ; with more or less expe- 
dition, retreating. 

Kitty. Then I agree with you that he can't have been there. He 
would certainly not have adapted himself to circumstances in that 
fashion. My husband is a stranger to fear. 

Bern. Is he? Gad! he should get a bull to introduce him. 
Then it is your husband, madam, that you're enquiring after? 

Kitty, (half crying) Oh! yes, yes. I'm — I'm — I don't know 
where he's gone, and I'm — I'm very uneasy, sir. 

Bern, [aside] I say, what does this mean ? Sounds as if this 
dauntless husband had run away after all — effecting a retreat, that 
is, for connubial reasons. H'm ! [looking at her critically) a 
remarkably nice-looking girl. Sabre me ! if she isn't an extraor- 
dinary pretty girl. I'm curious about her. [aloud) You appear to 
be in some distress, ma'am. If I can be of any assistance to you, 
you may command me ; command me as if you were the duke 
himself. I shall be proud to put all my forces at your disposal ; 
horse, foot, and marines, ma'am ; lock, stock and barrel, by gad ! 

Kitty. You are very good, but 

Bern. Never mind the "but." Come! I don't want to be 
curious, but you and your busband have had a little tiff, eh? — a 
mere out-post affair no doubt ; and he's drawn off, isn't it so? — 
leaving you mistress of the — the champ de bataille, eh ? Of 
course, of course. These little things happen every day. 

Kitty. You're quite wrong. It never happened before. 

Bern. Not with you — of course not — not with you and your hus- 
band, because you've only been married a month or so. 

Kitty. A month ! We've only been married a week. 

Bern, [aside) I thought as much. The honeymoon in its first 
quarter, begad! [aloud) A week ! Then he'll be back in ten 
minutes, in ten minutes at the outside, and I'd wager anything 
he'll bring with him the very thing that you had your little argu- 
ment about, if it is to be bought in the whole town. 

Kitty. I didn't want him to buy anything. And he hasn't any 
money to buy it with if I did. 

Bern, [aside) Hallo, hallo ! [aloud) No money ! Ah! I dare say 
you're right. A man who marries an heiress mustn't expect to 
have it all his own way. 

Kitty. An heiress ! I ! You never were more mistaken. The 
only portion I brought to my husband was my love. 

Bern. Nothing but love — whew! Ah! it's wonderful how soon 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 13 

married people run through that sort of property, when there's 
nothing more substantial behind. 

Kitty. There ought to have been plenty more substantial behind 
only, only a brute 

Bern. Ay, ay ! So you've married a man without a sixpence ? 

Kitty. Pardon me ! I've married a man with two. 

Bern. With two ! 

Kitty. Yes; he's— [sobs) he's cut off with them. 

Bern. Cut off with them — absconded with your entire fortune ! 
Shameful ! You may well call him a brute, my dear young lady. 

Kitty. I call him a brute ! [rises) How dare you say so, sir? 

Bern. I beg ten thousand pardons ; but I thought you men- 
tioned a brute. 

Kitty. Well, if I did ! A woman may talk of a brute without 
meaning her husband, I suppose. 

Bern. No doubt, no doubt. Such a case might occur. 

Kitty. Am I right in supposing you are an unmarried man, sir? 

Bern, [rising) We are both right, ma'am ; you in supposing me 
unmarried, and I in being so. 

Kitty. Nay, nay ; unmarried people are ignorant of what true 
happiness is. 

Bern. Their ignorance is such bliss, ma'am, that it would be 
folly to be wise. 

Kitty. Ah, no ! Wisdom is always better than ignorance. 

Bern. Pardon my saying, madam, that in my view the wisdom 
which a man gains by marriage, is the wisdom which showeth 
him that he is a fool. I refer of course to what are called love- 
matches ; mere matches of sentiment. It is a different thing with 
marriages where prudence has been first consulted. They are 
reasonable enough. The relatives of the parties meet, questions 
of property are considered, settlements drawn up, marriage fol- 
lows, and 

Kitty. And the love, sir ; where does that come? 

Bern. The love ! Oh ! that comes afterwards. 

Kitty. Comes afterwards ! And do you call such love as that 
legitimate love ? 

Bern. Legitimate ! Of course — isn't it born in wedlock? 

Kitty. I am surprised to hear a soldier speak of love in such 
terms as that. 

Bern, [much flattered) A soldier! Bayonet me! She's a 
charming woman ! [aside) 

Kitty. But — [rising and walking to window) Pray excuse my 
uneasiness. I cannot think what has become — Oh ! to whom can 
I turn for advice ? 

Bern. Turn to me, ma'am, [aside) A charming woman, as I'm 
a — a soldier! [aloud) Turn to me. I'm not a married man, 
certainly, but none the less able perhaps to give advice as to a 



14 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

matrimonial difficulty. A general conducting a battle must keep 
himself aloof from the strife. Now, ma'am, [sitting in an attitude 
of attention) You speak to sympathizing ears, I assure you. Now, 
ma'am. Forward! 

Kitty. Well, you look so kind and sympathizing that — but if 
you're to understand it properly I must tell you the whole story, 
and you must fancy yourself in my position from the first, you 
know. 

Bern. I'll do my best, ma'am. Right shoulders forward — 
march ! 

Kitty. Fancy yourself, then, a girl at a boarding school. 

Bern, [starting) Halt! (as if after an effort) Well? 

Kitty. Fancy that you had constantly met, and at last fallen in 
love with — I mean at first, you know — fallen in love with the 
dearest, handsomest, charmingest man in the world. Now can 
you fancy that? 

Bern. Easily ; for it was nothing but fancy. 

Kitty. He was, though ! All the girls said so. And he chose 
me out of them all ! 

Bern. I can quite fancy that. 

Kitty, (bashfully) Well, what could I do, you know ? It was so 
flattering, and he was so attentive, and he went on so with notes 
and bouquets and all that 

Bern. Ay, ay ! I can fancy all that. 

Kitty. Till at last I — I used to meet him just out of bounds, you 
know, with two girls on the wall, to- 

Bern. I know, mounted vedettes ; just so. 

Kitty. Yes, and he talked of his love and his property ; and his 
town house and his country house, and all that, till I — till I con- 
sented to run away with him. 

Bern. Ay, ay ! the old story, " So runs the world away." 

Kitty. So early one morning I stole out of my room, and out of 
the house, while all the girls were fast asleep, and through the 
garden, and out at the back gate, and — and found myself in his 
arms you know. Are you attending ? Are you fancying your- 
self in my position ? 

Bern. H'm ! for the moment I was fancying myself in his posi- 
tion. But it comes to the same thing. Go on. 

Kitty. Well, we were married that morning, and came on here, 
and what do you think ? 

Bern. Why, what? 

Kitty. Why, he's worth nothing at all ! (rising solemnly) 

Bern. Nothing at all ! Break my centre ! Nothing ! Then he 
deceived you ? 

Kitty. He ! No. He has been himself deceived, grossly 
deceived by a relative upon whom he had lavished a more than 
filial affection for years. 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 15 

Bern. Deceived by a relation! (rising and taking her hand) I 
can sympathize with you, madam ; I can sympathize with you and 
your husband, for I also have been deceived by a relation, a fel- 
low, who, forgetting 

Kitty. Forgetting the tender affection which my husband had 
always treated him with, which no son, however devoted, could 
have exceeded ; affection such as 

Bern. Such as not one father out of a hundred shows, and not 
one tithe of which did this ungrateful fellow deserve, he suddenly 
turned round with the blackest treachery, and without a thought 
for the grief and disappointment 

Kitty. Oh ! With the very intention of inflicting this grief and 
disappointment — turned round and wrote a letter such as a tiger 
might have indited 

Bern. Or a hyena, laughing in its sleeve, might have penned, 
in which, under a thin veil of consideration and good man- 
ners 

Kitty. And with an affectation of justice that was simply profane. 
Oh, it was shameful, wasn't it? 

Bern. Shameful ! It was worse than shameful. But consider 
my case 

Kitty. And mustn't the man who could behave so be a brute ? 
Mustn't he now ? 

Bern. Brute ! Brute is too good a name for him. But look at 
me 

Kitty. And all for what? 

Bern. For what, indeed ? For a nasty, artful, scheming 

Kitty. All because of me — because he took an unreasoning dis- 
like for me. 

Bern. The monster ! Dislike for you ! 

Kitty, [with a coquettish glance) Then you don't think I'm so 
repulsive, do you ? 

Bern. I? Gad no, ma'am! It is from the other pole of the 
magnet that I suffer. 

Kitty. You are too kind ! Believe me, sir, such frank and 
generous sympathy from a perfect stranger has affected me most 
sensibly. 

Bern. Don't call me a stranger, my dear young lady. Com- 
munity in suffering makes rapid friendships. I feel as if I had 
known you for years. 

Kitty. And you too have suffered from the ingratitude of a 
relation ? 

Bern. I have ; from the detestable ingratitude of a fellow who 
was indebted to me for everything he had in the world ; for the 
very clothes he wore, for his education, for his entrance into 
life 

Kitty. Entrance into life ! Ah ! your son. How terrible ! 



1 6 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Bern. Son! I've been more than a father to him. And how 
does he repay me ? After my squandering upon him the most 
lavish kindness, after my giving him all that the most beloved and 
petted son could expect from the most indulgent father, what does 
he do ? Denies me his confidence in the most interesting event 
in his life — almost breaks the heart of a rich, well-born and beau- 
tiful girl whom I had selected for his wife, and marries a nasty 
little draggle-tailed chit with no more prospects than a London 
coal cellar. 

Enter, Sam, silently, by window, catches sight of Berners, and 
slips behind curtain to listen. 

Kitty. Ah, the horrid creature ! But she's pretty, I suppose ; 
and a pretty face makes up for everything, you know. 

Bern. Not when it's all made up itself, as hers is. Pretty ! 
About as pretty as a Lowther Arcade doll ! A little dowdy thing 
— short, dumpy, vapid ! Not that I've ever seen her myself, 
but 

Kitty, [surprised) What ! not seen her ! How then can you 
judge of her appearance ? 

Bern. Oh ! I know the sort of girl that would attract him — tell 
me the fish, I'll tell you the bait for it. He is insensible to true 
beauty, grossly insensible. When I selected for him a lady with 
the gait of an empress and the figure of a queen, with the blood of 
princes in her veins and the fortune of a prince in her pockets, he 
sneered at her as too tall, and because the blood of all her ances- 
tors mantled in her countenance, ma'am, he compared her with 
disgusting ribaldry to a railway semaphore with" a danger signal at 
the top. 

Kitty, {earnestly) Was she so tall then, this lady? 

Bern. Nothing to speak of; nothing out of the way. Or if she 
was rather tall, supposing she was willing to stoop to a marriage 
with him, what did her height matter ? No ; the ungrateful 
rascal 

Kitty. Your son, do you mean ? 

Bern. Son ! he's no son of mine, nor ever was for that matter. 
He was only my nephew to begin with, and now 

Kitty, [uneasily) Your nephew ! Dear me ! 

Bern. Yes, but he's no nephew of mine for the future. I'll 
have nothing more to do with hjm. I've cast him off. I wrote 
and told him so ; told him in so many words. 

Kitty, [with suppressed anxiety) You wrote to him ! Oh, wasn't 
it a difficult letter to write ? What could you say ? 

Bern. Nothing more easy. I'll tell you what I said ; I remem- 
ber every word of it ; it's simplicity itself. I said — now mark — I 
said, " Dear Sam " 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 



Kitty, {with a great start) " Dear Sam ! " {aside) There! 

Bern. Too affectionate, you think. You think I ought to have 
said, " Dear Mr. Gaythorne," perhaps. 

Kitty. " Mr. Gaythorne! " {rising in much agitation) 

Bern. Why, what's the matter, ma'am ? 

Kitty. I — I'm uneasy about my husband, sir — seriously uneasy. 
{aside) Who could have thought ! 

Bern. The normal condition of a wife, ma'am. Pray attend — 
" Dear Sam, — I am a man of my word." — so I am. Always 
mean what I say 

Kitty, {aside) And he called me a " draggle-tailed chit." 

Bern. Pray attend, ma'am — "man of my word. I told you 
that if you married without my consent you should receive from 
me the sum of one shilling sterling, and no more. Your letter 
informs me that you have done so" — He had written to me, you 
understand 

Kitty. Yes ; a beautiful letter. 

Bern. What, ma'am? Beautiful? 

Kitty. Don't I speak distinctly? Undutiful, I say. I suppose 
it was an undutiful letter. 

Bern. Oh! I misunderstood you, ma'am. Undutiful! I 
should think so, most undutiful. 

Kitty. What a dreadful story ! 

Bern. So it is ; so it is. A dreadful story of ingratitude. But I 
was even with him. Pray attend to what follows — " informs me 
that you have done so. I enclose" — mark this, ma'am — "I 
enclose the shilling, and am " 

Kitty. {losing patience) A cruel, hard-hearted monster ! 

Bern, {staring in astonishment) Monster! Who? 
Kitty. Why you — you — {a sob) wick — wick — wicked old man. 
Bern. Bless my soul, I — where' s my hat? I perceive, madam, 
that I have trespassed too long upon your kindness ; that I have 
taxed your — hem ! — your politeness too far. Permit me to thank 

you very much for 

Kitty. No ; pray don't go. Forgive me, please, for those hasty 
words. No ! {getting between him and the door) I really won't let 

you go till you — nay, sir, I beg and entreat 

Bern, {seizing his hat and umbrella, but leaving his glasses) Good 
morning, madam ; thanking you once more for your kindness. 
Nay, if a flank movement is necessary — {turning suddenly towards 
sash window) Good morning ! 

Exit, C, off \,. — Sam comes from behind curtain, goes to C. window, 
and watches Berners out of sight. 

Kitty. There ! he's gone. Oh ! my foolish — foolish tongue. 
And if I had only kept my temper and taken pains, I might per- 



1 8 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

haps have won him back for Sam, for he was more than half in 
love with me. I'm certain he was ! And oh ! what a triumph 
that would have been. But now — (Sam comes down) Oh! Sam, 
my darling, then you're come back. Oh ! I've been so wretched, 
I could not think what had become of you. 

Sam. What will become of me, you mean. There's nothing left 
for me as far as I can see but to 'list for a soldier, and as I've been 
cut off with one shilling to be cut off for another : to take the 
Queen's handsome offer, and so double our fortune at one 
stroke. 

Kitty. Oh, don't talk in that dreadful way, Sam. If you had to 
go and fight I should die of terror. 

Sam. Fight, Kitty ! You don't suppose that being a soldier has 
anything to do with fighting, do you ? Not a bit of it. Women, 
children and Englishmen are non-combatants now-a-days. 

Kitty. Oh, Sam ! you don't know what has happened since you 
went out. Your uncle's been here. 

Sam. I know. I saw him. 

Kitty. Did you ? He said 

Sam. I know. I heard him. 

Kitty. And I said 

Sam. Ay — ay — I heard that too. 

Kitty. Then — then — oh, Sam, I'm so vexed with myself. 

Sam. Are you ? Then I never knew a married couple more 
thoroughly of one mind in my life before. 

Kitty. You're vexed with me too, you mean. 

Sam. Of course, as a husband, I am bound toshare allmy wife's 
vexations. 

Kitty. But, my darling, I had no patience with him. [crosses, 
R.) 

Sam. I know, my dear, I know. That's just how it struck 
me. 

Kitty. I'm sure for some time I was as patient as a saint. 

Sam. So you were, my own, till suddenly you blazed up like a 
martyr. 

Kitty. Then 1 wish you'd scold me well, Sam. 

Sam. Where's the use, Kitty ? If there were any chance of his 
coming back 

Kitty. Why, I declare he is coming back. Look ! 

Sam. Eh ! So he is, what on earth's the meaning of this? 

Kitty. I know. See! He's left his glasses. He's coming back 
for them, no doubt. What shall we do to detain him ? Hide 
again, Sam, hide. I have it. There's nothing else to be done. 
I'll faint on them. I know how to do it. I have often fainted at 
Miss Lothrop's, and deceived them all down to the doctor. Run 
away — quick ! [throws herself on sofa, the glasses imder her) 

Sam. By Jove ! She's not been to school for nothing. She's 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 1 9 

had a first-rate female education, evidently. Now then to cover. 
The enemy is forcing the outworks, as he'd express it himself. 
{runs behind curtain) 

Enter, Colonel Berners at window, c.from l. 

Bern. I deeply regret having to trouble you again, madam, 
with my— {looking round) with my presence; but I've left my 
—my field glasses, {catching sight of her) Bless me ! What's 
the matter ? Why, she' s fainted. Poor child ! Madam ! Madam ! 
A dead faint, and no mistake. What's occasioned this, now ? Can 
it have been my ill-timed anger that— [sitting on sofa beside her) 
Oh, there are my glasses. But, hang it, I can't leave her in this 
state. Where' s some water ? [taking some and sprinkling it on her 
face) Gad, how pretty she is ! Looks like an angel reposing, don t 
she ? I wish she were an angel indeed, I'd burn some of her own 
feathers under her nose, and bring her to in that way. [letting her 
hand drop) I declare this looks serious. I must open a vein. 

Sam. (aside, looking out) What— what does he say ! I'll have no 
bloodshed ! . 

Bern, (feeling in breastpocket) I never stir without a lancet. 

Sam. (aside) But, hang it, I hope she'll stir without a lancet, or 
I must interfere. 

Bern, (pulling up sleeve of her dress) What a lovely arm ! Like 
marble, by Jove ! . , 

Sam. (aside) Ay, an arm after your own heart, isn t it, you 
stony-hearted old rascal ! 

Bern. Well, now for it ! (she sighs and raises her hand to her face) 
Eh ! Why, she's coining to ! (in a tone of some disappointment) 

Sam. (aside) And I declare he's disappointed— the blood-thirsty 
old dog ! 

Kitty, (sighing) Ah ! Where am I ? 

Bern. Don't move ; sit still. You'll be much better directly. 

Kitty, (turning her eyes on him in a weary way, and speaking 
slowly, in a low voice) I'm afraid I've been very troublesome. 

Bern, (hastily) Nothing of the sort— nothing of the sort. 

Kitty, (holding out her hand) And you've been so very kind. 

Bern. Not a bit— not a bit. (aside) I'm rather glad I left my 
glasses, (aloud) How do vou feel now, eh? Better, eh? 

Kitty Oh, I'm quite well again, thanks. I shall be none the 
worse for it. I've had fainting fits of this kind before, and they 
never do me any harm, (with a smile as if at her own weakness) 
It's not a real faint, you know. 

Sam. (aside) Frank, by Jove ! 

Bern. Isn't it? It is, though. And though I hope it s nothing 
serious] yet I think you should take advice about it. 



20 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Kitty. Oh ! it's nothing. It is not a case formedicine. I am so 
sorry for what I said just now. Will you forgive me ? 

Bern. Pooh — pooh ! Of course. Nothing to forgive, my dear 

nothing, [aside) I'm very glad I left my glasses. 

Kitty. But I did pity those two poor things so. 

Bern. What poor things ? 

Kitty. Why, your nephew and — and niece, you know. 

Bern. (rising and speaking coldly) You think I treated them 
cruelly, ma'am ! 

Kitty. Now you're getting angry again. Do sit down, and talk 
quietly, (supplicatingly) Now, please, [he sits again) It was very 
wrong of your nephew to treat you as he did, I quite allow. 

Sam. (aside) That's right, don't spare me. I've got no friends. 

Bern, (angrily) Wrong of him ! why 

Kitty, (firmly) Yes, I say it was wrong of him ; but, oh ! if you 
would only let me be the peacemaker between you and your 
nephew, you don't know how much lighter my own sorrow would 
be. 

Bern. For your own matter, my dear, don't let it trouble you. I 
shall make a point of seeing your relative who has treated you so 
heartlessly, and hope to bring him to a sense of the atrocity of his 
conduct. But as to that nephew of mine — think of the feelings of 
Miss Cronyon. 

Kitty. Dear me ! (as if shuck by the name) Miss— Who ? (reach, 
ing newspaper) 

Bern. Miss Cronyon : the lady I intended him to marry ; one of 
the Cronyon* s, of Blarney-le-Towers. Think of that poor girl, 
nursing her broken heart, and concealing her lacerated affection 
in the shady groves of her ancestral home. 

Kitty. Ah, the Groves of Blarney— what did you say the name 
was ? 

Bern. Blarney-le-Towers, County Cork. And you don't appear 
to sympathize with her at all. You can't feel for a woman, I sup- 
pose. Ha, ha ! so like your sex, that. 

Kitty. I keep my sympathy for those who need it? 

Bern. And does not she need it, ma'am ? 

Kitty. You shall judge for yourself, (holding out paper) Look 
there! In the marriages. Do you see? (pointing) "On the 

15th, by the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop of '-, assisted by 

the Reverend "—do you see ? " Alexander George Pursechoyle, 
late Captain," and so on, " to Clementina Belinda Letitia, eldest 
daughter of Ambrose Cronyon, of Blarney-le-Towers, Esquire, 
and niece of the Right Honorable the Earl of Chateau-Gammon."' 
Miss Cronyon, you see, of Blarnev-le-Towers, Esquire. ( sweetly] 
Is that your Miss Cronyon ? y 

Bern, (striking his thigh) Gad ! then I've been made a fool of. 

Kitty, (smiling) Yes; so like your sex, that. 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 21 

Sam. [aside] Ha, ha! that's one for him. 

Kitty. But, there ! Never mind Mrs. Pursechoyle, nee Crony on. 
She was evidently a deceitful thing, and your nephew is well rid 
of such a connection. His present wife wouldn't deceive you for 
the world, I'm sure — (aside) except for your good. 

Bern. I should like to see her, ma'am, (wrathfully) 

Kitty. Oh ! he'll bring her to see you, of course, directly you 
send him word of your forgiveness. 

Bern. Eh ! you misunderstand me. Forgiveness ! He gets no 
forgiveness from me. 

Kitty. No ! 

Bern. No, ma'am ; no. 

Kitty. Oh ! then I misunderstood you, indeed. What a 
ridiculous mistake for me to make. I understood you to say that 
you were a man of your word. Absurd ! ha, ha ! 

Bern. And do you think I am not a man of my word, ma'am ? 

Kitty. How can I think so, when just now you told me that you 
could forgive your nephew everything except his treatment of that 
most needlessly pitied Miss Cronyon ? 

Sam. (aside) Well done, our side ! 

Bern. But I did not tell you that I could forgive the creature he 
has married — and husband and wife are one ! 

Kitty. Occasionally. But you own you've never seen her. Is 
this justice, now, to condemn without seeing? 

Barn. Of course it is. Does not every statue of Justice tell you 
that ? Oh ! I could forgive him, but for that impertinent litttle 
flirt whom he has married — that obnoxious, ill-bred, ugly 

Kitty, (rising angrily) Ugly, sir! I will not endure — that is, I 
beg you, out of consideration for me, not to use such terms as 
those in speaking of one of my sex. A woman cannot bear to hear 
a woman spoken of in such a way. 

Sam. (aside) Unless she says it herself* I suppose. 

Bern. I beg pardon, madam— I meant nothing offensive, I pro- 
test ; least of all to you, ma'am. If the creature were anything 
like you — hem ! 

Kitty. Like me! Oh, I'm sure Mrs. — what was the name? 
Ah ! Gaythorne, Avas it not ?— Mrs. Gaythorne is quite as pretty as 
I am. (leaning back, and smiling at him) Ah, I wish I were your 
niece. 

Bern, (glancing at her) Do you, my dear, do you? (aside) I 
wish to goodness she was. 

Kitty, (smiling) Yes, I do. (after a moment 's thought) If I were 
your niece, and you made yourself disagreeable in this way, I'll 
tell you what I should do. 

Bern. Disagreeable ! Dis Well, what should you do ? 

Kitty. I should get an interview with you without your knowing 
who I was. 



22 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Bern. That would be impossible, to start with. 

Kitty. Impossible ! The easiest thing in the world. I'd be a 
governess inquiring for a situation, or a housemaid seeking a 
place ; I'd be a lady after a servant's character, or a servant after 
a lady's; I'd be a Sister of Charity wanting subscriptions for a 
hospital ; I'd be a blind beggar and a dog, but I'd see you some- 
how. 

Bern. Well — well, suppose we grant that. What then ? 

Kitty. Well, in the first place I should make you look at me a 
good deal ; and really, sir, after my experience of your society for 
the last half hour, I can't bring myself to believe that to effect that 
Would be a matter of any difficulty. 

Bern, [with some embarrassment} Well, ha, ha ! No, ma'am, 
no — no, my dear. Ha, ha ! perhaps not, my love. 

Kitty. Well then, I should talk to you — you know, till you began 
rather to like me than otherwise, [quickly) Perhaps you'll say 
that's an impossibility. 

Bern. By no means, my dear, the very contrary, begad ! 

Kitty. Then — then I should throw off the mask, and I should 
say : — " I am very sorry, uncle, that Sam married me without 
your consent, and against your wishes ; I never dreamed when I 
listened to him that he was dependent upon you, and therefore 
bound to consider you in taking such a step." I should say — " I 
am a poor motherless girl, uncle, without any one in the world 
but Sam and — and — you. (sods) Will you still cast off one who is 
quite innocent of any thought of offending you, and who would be 
— oh ! so glad to love you dearly ? (sods and sits aft sofa with hand- 
kerchief to her eyes) 

Bern. By George, madam, (with great warmth) If Sam had 
married you, I'd have — here, give me a piece of writing paper — 
quick ! I must give vent to my feelings at once. Quick ! A piece 
of paper and a pen. 

Kitty, (setting writing materials before him) Oh ! how good of 
you — you will write to your nephew at once. 

Bern. To my nephew ! no. To that tiger-hearted relation of 
yours whose unreasonable anger would blast your future life. But 
I'll make it all right, my dear. You leave it to me. Now then 
his name and address. Quick! Who is he? Come — the scorpion's 
address. 

Kitty, (aside) What shall I say ? Oh! (aloud) I'll look for the 
address while you are writing the letter. Thanks, so much, for 
your kindness. 

Bern. Not a bit. Be quick ! I shan't be long. I shall give it 
him short and sharp, (beginning to write) " Sir" — I'll give it him, 
front, flank, and rear. (Kitty steals back to Sam and whispers to 
him — he to her) What relation is he to your husband, my dear ? 
(without turning) 



CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 23 

Kitty, {with a grimace of apprehetision) Uncle ! 

Bern. Uncle! The viper! [writes) I wonder how he'll like 
that, ha, ha! [emphasizing his composition with violent motions of 
his head ) 

Kitty, [in a whisper to Sam) I hope he'll put it very plainly, 
Sam. 

Sam. [to her) Little doubt of that. A man always tells the 
whole truth when talking to himself. 

Bern. There! Now, my dear, an envelope, please. That's 
right. Now then, his name and address, [ready to address 
envelope) 

Kitty. His name is 

Bern. Well ! Out with it. 

Kitty. His name is Colonel Berners ! 

A pause — he falls back in his chair, and simply stares — she neither 
moves nor looks up, but sits with the letter in her hand. 

Bern, [ivith a grasp) Colonel 

Kitty, [without looking up) Berners ! — B, E, R — [he rises and 
dashes the pen on table) Isn't the pen a good one? [rallying her 
courage) Ah, I see, as a soldier you don't like a quill. Captain 
Sword of course prefers the steel, and scorns the white feather! 
[looking up at last, and speaking firmly) Try this one, Uncle Joseph- 
Bern. So you are Sam's wife, madam! 

Kitty. Yes, uncle. 

Bern. And dare you look me in the face, ma'am, after — after 
playing upon me in this way ! Why — why— -turn my flank, 
madam 

Kitty. Well, haven't I, Uncle Joseph? 

Bern. So you've made a fool of me, have you ? 

Kitty. No, indeed. That was all your own doing. 

Bern. I've made a fool of myself, that's to say. [aside) Begad 
she's right, too. [aloud) But if you think such deceit as this will 
prosper, you are mistaken. 

Kitty. Do you mean that I deceived you? 

Bern. Why, do you deny it? 

Kitty. Most certainly. 

Bern. What? Did not you behave to me from the time I entered 
your house as if you'd no connection with me at all? 

Kitty. And isn't that exactly the way you've behaved to me, 
from the time I entered your family ? 

Bern, [aside] Hang it. [aloud) Didn't you pretend that this 
business of my nephew and his wife had nothing whatever to do 
with you ? 

Kitty. On the contrary, did I not make their cause my own 
most warmlv ? 



24 CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. 

Bern. Blow me from a gun, ma'am ! didn't you try to impose a 
sham faint upon me for a real one ? 

Kitty. The very reverse. I told you distinctly that it was not a 
real one and you wouldn't believe me. 

Sam. [coming forward) Yes, yes, uncle. I can vouch for that. 
She certainly did tell you that distinctly. 

Bern. Oh! you're there, sir, are you ? So you've been behind 
the scenes all the while, of course. 

Sam. Oh, only behind the curtain. How are you, sir ? 

Bern, [aside] I don't know what the dickens to do. She's very 
pretty, begad. But am I to be trepanned into 

Sam. What have you got there, Kitty ? 

Kitty. Oh, such a beautiful letter of Uncle Joseph's. You must 
hear it. 

Sam. By all means. I like his letters so much — when he doesn't 
enclose money. 

Kitty. May I read it to him, uncle ? 

Bern, [aside] Oh, confound that letter ! 

Kitty. Silence gives consent. Novv.Sam, (rW^) " Sir, Pardon 
the liberty I take in addressing you upon a subject with which you 
will no doubt consider that a stranger has no right to intermeddle. 
But I have, by accident, made the acquaintance of a most charm- 
ing young lady, who, for no other fault than marrying the man she 
loved, has to her infinite sorrow, brought upon her husband the 
anger of a relation whose heir he supposed himself to be. That 
young lady is your connection ; her husband is your nephew ; the 
infuriated relation is — yourself." 

Sam. Hear, hear ! Very well put. The infuriated relation is 
himself. Good ! 

Bern. There, ma'am, surely that will do. 

Kitty, [reads] " Now, sir, in the name of common charity " 

Bern. Stop, stop, madam, I can't stand this. 

Kitty, [still reading] ' ' Of mere justice ' ' 

Bern. May I beg, Mrs. Gaythorne 

Kitty, [reads] " Of all the better feelings of our nature " 

Bern. Stop, my dear, for pity's sake. Confound me ! I can't 
stand this. I might have held out but for that pernicious piece of 
manuscript. But now — hemmed in here, cut off there, I've no 
resource but unconditional surrender. There ! I surrender. 

Kitty. You do ? Sam, Sam, Uncle Joseph surrenders. 

Sam. Does he? Then allow me to return you, sir, the — [Add- 
ing out his hand) 

Bern. The what? 

Kitty. The Shilling. 
Sam. Kitty. Colonel. 

r. L. 

CURTAIN. 



H. THEYRE SMITH'S PLAYS. 

Price, 1 5 Cents Each. 

A CASE FOR EVICTION. One male and two female characters— light comedian, 
lady comedian and servant. Interior scene ; modern costumes ; time of playing, 
thirty minutes. This breezy little play is so true to life that everybody enjoys it 
and, as a matter of course, it is always highly successful. A young husband and 
wife have a visitor who makes them twice glad — glad when he comes and doubly 
glad when he goes. The difficulties that the young couple experience in getting 
rid of their guest, without hurting his feelings, are laughable in the extreme. 
The guest, by the way, is heard but not seen— which fact gives rise to much 
comical business. No scenery whatever is required ; and as every-day costumes 
are worn, the piece can be produced successfully without the slightest trouble. 

CUT OFF WITH A SHILLING. Two male and one female characters- 
juvenile man, old man and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; modern cos- 
tumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. An exceedingly popular play, offering 
unusual opportunities for good acting. A young man who has married without 
his uncle's consent is cut off with a shilling. But the uncle meets, his nephew's 
wife — not knowing who she is — and is so captivated by her wit, grace and beauty 
that, on learning who she is, he changes his mind, reinstates his nephew and. 
allows the latter to return the shilling. The dialogue is witty, the action rapid, 
and the situations effective. 

A HAPPY PAIR. One male, one female character — both light comedy. Scene, a 
nicely furnished room ; modern costumes ; time of playing, forty-five minutes. A 
brisk little play, full of action and giving numerous opportunities for clever work. 
While entirely free from all "low-comedy" business, it contains enough humor 
to be highly diverting. The quarrels of the "happy pair," and their final recon- 
ciliation can not fail to please, and the play is sure to give entire satisfaction 
either in the parlor or as a " curtain raiser" or afterpiece. 

MY LORD IN LIVERY. Four male and three female characters— light comedian, 
low comedian, old man, utility, lady comedian and two walking ladies. Parlor 
scene ; modern costumes ; time Of playing, fifty minutes. An unusually bright 
piece brimming over with wit and humor. The three young ladies who permit a 
comic servant to meet them on terms of equality under the belief that he is a 
nobleman masquerading like themselves — the happy-go-lucky young nobleman 
who is mistaken for a burglar — the comical old butler — all have a vast deal of 
laughable by-play and business. This play was a pronounced success in New 
York, and has been presented to crowded houses in all the principal cities of this 
country. The ease with which it may be staged, and the invariable success which 
attends it, make Mv Lord in Livery peculiarly adapted to the use of amateurs. 

UNCLE'S WILL. Two male and one female characters — juvenile lead, old man 
and lady comedian. Scene, a sitting-room ; costumes, modern ; time of playing, 
thirty minutes. This brilliant little play is a prime favorite in both Europe and 
America, and is admirably adapted to the use of amateurs. The wit flashes 
like a diamond, and the dainty bits of humor scattered here and there keep up a 
constant ripple of pleased excitement. Each character is a star part. The dash- 
ing young naval officer, the comical old man — in which Mr. Davidge made a 
pronounced hit at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York — and the bright and 
spirited young lady, all are first class and worthy of the best talent in any dramatic 
club. 

WHICH IS WHICH. Three male, three female characters^-juvenile man, old 
man, utility, two juvenile ladies and old woman. Scene, a studio ; costumes, 
modern; time of playing, fifty minutes. Excellent and much patronized by 
amateurs. The amusing perplexities of the poor artist, who can not tell which of 
his visitors is the heiress and which her penniless friend — who mistakes one for 
the other — who makes love to the rich girl, supposing that she is poor, and deter- 
mines to marry her in spite of her supposed poverty — and who finally discovers 
that he has proposed to the heiress after all — combine to make this a delightful 
play. 

B3^*° A ny of the above will be sent by mall, postpaid, to any address, on receipt 
cfthe annexed prices. As there are several editions of these plays offered/or sale, 
good, bad and indifferent, purchasers will consult their own interests^ when order~ 
ing, by specifying Roorbach's edition, .^gl 

HAROLD ROOBACH, Publisher, 9 Murray St, New York 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
HEL1 

ACTOR'S MA 

JL Practical and Systematic Guide tc 014 430 667 3 




PRICE, 25 CENTS. 



With exhaustive treatment on the Use of Theatrical 
Wigs and Beards, The Make-up and its requisite materials, the 
different features and their management, typical character 
Masks, etc. With Special Hints to Ladies. Designed for the 
use of Actors and Amateurs, and for both Ladies and Gentle- 
men. Copiously Illustrated. 

CONTENTS. 

I. Theatrical Wigs.— The Style and Form of Theatrical Wigs 
and Beards. The Color and Shading of Theatrical Wigs and Beards. 
Directions for Measuring the Head. To put on a Wig properly. 

II. Theatrical Beards. — How to fashion a Beard out of crepe 
hair. How to make Beards of Wool. The growth of Beard simu- 
lated. 

III. The Make-up — A successful Character Mask, and how to 
make it. Perspiration during performance, how removed. 

IV. The Make-up Box. — Grease Paints. Grease paints in 
sticks; Flesh Cream; Face Powder; How to use face powder as a 
liquid cream ; The various shades of face powder. Water Cos- 
anetique. Nose Putty. Court Plaster. Cocoa Butter. Cr&pe Hair 
arid Prepared Wool. Grenadine. Dorin's Rouge. "Old Man's" 
Rouge. "Juvenile" Rouge. Spirit Gum. Email Noir. Bear's 
Grease. Eyebrow Pencils. Artist's Stomps. Powder Puffs. Hares* 
Feet. Camels'-hair Brushes. 

V. The Features and their Treatment. — The Eyes : blind- 
ness. The Eyelids. The Eyebrows : How to paint out an eyebrow or 
■moustache ; How to paste on eyebrows ; How to regulate bushy eye- 
trows. The Eyelashes : To alter the appearance of the eyes. The 
Ears. The Nose : A Roman nose ; How to use the nose putty ; A 
pug nose ; An African nose ; a large nose apparently reduced in size. 
The Mouth and Lips : a juvenile mouth ; an old mouth ; a sensuous 
mouth ; a satirical mouth ; a one-sided mouth ; a merry mouth ; A 
sullen mouth. The Teeth. The Neck, Arms, Hands and Finger- 
nails : Fingernails lengthened. Wrinkles: Friendliness and Sullen- 
ness indicated by wrinkles. Shading. A Starving character. A 
Cut in the Face. A Thin Face Made Fleshy. 

VI. Typical Character Masks. — The Make-up for Youth : 
Dimpled cheeks. Manhood. Middle Age. Making up as a Drunk- 
ard : One method ; another method. Old Age. Negroes. Moors. 
Chinese. King Lear, Shylock. Macbeth. Richelieu. Statuary. 
Clowns. 

VII. Special Hints to Ladies. — The Make-up. Theatrical 
Wigs and Hair Goods. 

Sent by mail, postpaid, to any address, on receipt of the price. 

HAROLD ROORBACH, Publisher, 

9 Murray Street, New York. 



